


Clay Soldier

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Gen, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte





	Clay Soldier

Everything fades to blackness with a solemn, steady slowness: the switch has been turned off, the mission has been completed (if completion can be defined as disappearing), and the Batter will face only the consequence of following after the dreams he purified.

A tunnel of noise decelerates past his ears, dragged by a vacuum draining both color and sound. The floor stays still throughout the quiet decomposition; it does not fragment and break away to nothing. The ground pales by the second as the rest is ripped to shreds. The walls chip away, and the floor drips.

It is like the race of a thousand ants crawling back to the black hole of their hill's entrance. Their bodies inch forward in a thick mass towards their underground shelter.

This is not a shelter, however.

It is nonexistence.

For some reason, the Batter finds he is holding his breath. He lets it out in a puff. He loosens his fingers on his bat and rolls his shoulders, as if he is already readying for another mission to breathe life into his puppet heart. He closes his eyes like he is a dead man to be buried, when, in reality, he is Death himself.

Something invisible tugs at his fingers, and the weapon is gone. He's holding his breath again.

He has never felt so sure that there is nothing.

It is The End.

But he is still able to breathe. He sucks in some more air - surely his last. A minute passes, and his eyes open. There is nothing to see or to hear. There is no way nonexistence could be delayed, though.

Blackness stretches out before him. Unsure, he steps forward, expecting to, perhaps, fall. His foot meets some kind of surface, and he walks through the void. His breath comes out in a cloud.

Everything is so quiet and so soundless that an unreal, static hum vibrates through the darkness, if just for something to fill the space. His shoes are soft on the shadows, yet they have never been loud before. With each step he feels as though he is sinking into a weightlessness that is somehow heavy and thick enough to make him succumb. Looking down, he notices he cannot see past his knees. The blackness is eating him.

It is cold. He can feel the nibbling teeth of nonexistence in his bones, biting through his clothes and sucking the bone of his knuckles out from his icy hands. The Batter believes that he is slinking towards a pure sleep, towards the Death he has fought for. He does not recognize any light source that shows to him his own descend, but he desires to banish it nonetheless.

Is this failure? Or has the Queen managed to prolong his final moments with her power, make it so that he at least has time to think on his deeds before vanishing? Royal fool. He only cares for The End, and he does not care for thought or punishment.

The emptiness is up to his elbows by the time the humming turns to something more. His head jerks in the direction he thinks it comes from, but it is growing stronger everywhere around him. The dimensions pulsate. The static turns to a strumming.

The notes of a song begin to play.

The blackness is at his neck.

“Confused, amigo?”

The Batter would sigh if he could experience frustration. Instead he growls.

Zacharie wades up to him, darkness at his nose, dripping from his eyes. Nothing is visible except the upper portion of his face – his forehead, his eyes through his mask, and his painted swirls on the cheeks of his disguise. “This is The End, as you might have guessed.”

The Batter grunts.

“Always the talkative sort,” the merchant laughs. “Well, neither am I.”

They are floating in the spit of a veil's mouth, close to the stomach of some destruction, and Zacharie is making small talk. The rumbling continues to vibrate from the shadow's throat.

“Would you like to know what is happening? Would you like to know why we're here? I can answer any questions you have left. There is no script backstage.”

When the Batter does not reply, Zacharie continues, “About anything! Zones, Guardians, Pablo. I can tell you what's under my mask. Aren't you a little bit curious to speak without strings?”

The Batter shakes his head.

“Ah. Pity. I always like explaining the last tidbits of the game. Especially about myself. Oh, well, there's always a next time.”

The Batter glares at him.

“Oops, terrible phrasing. Mentioning the next game always sets you on edge. I should certainly know better. Apologies, my dear customer. And I do mean you, Batter, because your Player cannot reach us here.”

“Hm,” the Batter says.

“Well, anyway, the credits are starting. I like to listen to the song that plays. It has a lovely tune.”

The humming in the background has transformed into a harmony. A voice sings the opening lyrics of a song.

White text seeps through the pure blackness.

“Ah,” Zacharie interrupts. “Almost forgot. Now this is the part you cannot witness. It is for the beguiled Player to hear.”

The Batter gazes at him. Zacharie twitches his body, as though he is trying to move. It almost looks like he is trying to wave his arm.

Then the merchant and his mask melts into the void, and the monster is flushed below.

At first, the purifier thrashes and resists before remembering that this is surely Death, and that he is plunging towards The End. His body relaxes to the current, and he is swept away.

To the sea swirling between his ears, the monster loses his brain, and so his memories are cleaned away. Like a polished plate to be put back in the cabinet, scrubbed and dried. The bruises on his back soften, and the predatory teeth in his jaw sheathe. There are no fangs because there is no longer a maw.

The monster is ripped apart and wrought anew to the tune of a song all Players have listened to.

In the head of the Batter, there had been anger or purpose, or anger and purpose. All underlying emotions are lost to the code, anyway.

The puppet has flicked the switch, and the game has been won. Since there are always more slots for the Player to pick from, there is always a being to be assigned.


End file.
